Red Hook Road

by Ayelet Waldman

  Then, one evening in late February, while walking out of the locker room at the gym, he tripped over his shoelace and cracked his mouth on the edge of a table, knocking out his front tooth. Here he’d been training for months, even on occasion sparring with fighters younger and often in better shape than himself, and he’d gotten hurt because he forgot to double knot his shoe. For the next couple of months he spent far too much time in the company of dental professionals. Two root canals, an implant, and even a little gum work, just for the heck of it. By the time his last Percodan prescription had run out, he agreed with the dentist that it would be foolish to purposely put his teeth in harm’s way. He couldn’t keep away from tables, but he didn’t have to let anyone punch him in the face. Once sparring was no longer an option, his enthusiasm for training at the boxing gym ebbed. Maybe it was simply that he no longer felt much like hurting someone anymore. His fists no longer brought him peace.

  Without boxing, it became harder for Daniel to fill his days. He was bored and, for the first time since he’d left home, lonely. It was in this mood that he made the trip up to Red Hook in April. He’d gone in order to spend some time with Ruthie and Matt, and that had indeed been a pleasure. Ruthie had seemed glad to see him, and although he couldn’t quite get a handle on her relationship with Matt, at least she was happy with her job. And Daniel liked Matt. The boy reminded him of himself in a way. Like Daniel, Matt was plodding down a path not entirely of his own choosing. Daniel had wanted so much to help the kid, but he wasn’t sure if he hadn’t picked the worst possible way. Maybe if Daniel hadn’t offered to bail him out financially, Matt would have considered abandoning the project that was clearly giving him so little pleasure. But at least this way Daniel had helped him finish the boat. At least it was done now.

  What Daniel had not anticipated from his visit was the feeling that overcame him when he walked into the bedroom he had shared with his wife for more than two decades. It smelled like Iris. Or, rather, it smelled like it always had, a scent he associated with his wife. Lavender from the spray she used on the sheets, the citrus tang of her hand lotion, the cedar chips she tucked between their sweaters, and something more difficult to identify, the barest hint of warm musk, the smell of Iris herself. He looked at the photographs on the wall. The one of his parents on their legendary cruise. The old sepia-toned shots of Iris’s ancestors. And the photographs of his daughters as babies, as young girls, and as young women. There was one photograph in particular that struck him. It was taken at the base of Red Hook Hill. The girls were about seven and twelve years old and they were sitting on the top rail of the fence that blocked the path from vehicle traffic. Iris stood between them, an arm looped around each of their waists. It was a blustery day and the girls’ hair whipped around their heads, hiding much of their faces. Iris’s was tied back, revealing her high forehead and her wide, easy grin. He bent closer to the picture. Around her neck Iris wore a glass pendant on a leather thong. It was a mottled purple blob, meant to be shaped, as he recalled, like an iris. Becca had made it for her in camp one summer. Iris wore it fairly often, long after Becca herself had come to be embarrassed by its lumpiness. Iris had always been like that, Daniel thought, loyal to a fault. She was that way with everyone she loved, tenacious in her defense of them, absolute in her allegiance. This was the other side of her bossiness, her pushiness. She always thought she knew what was best for you, always tried to force you to comply, but she did it because she wanted the best for you. Her love was fierce and unequivocal.

  Steadily over the next couple of months, Daniel’s feelings about his wife began to turn into a kind of pining. He missed her face across the breakfast table. The way she read sentences from books aloud to him, always so terribly disappointed if he didn’t understand the point or the joke, or whatever it was that had so moved her. He started to wonder if all along he’d been blaming Iris for his dissatisfaction, for his sense of being lost and disconnected from the person he used to be, when the truth was that everything that was good about his life wasn’t in spite of her, it was because of her.

  He had tried, periodically, especially over the past two months, to bring himself to pick up the phone and call Iris, but between them lay so much, and he was not sure how to bridge the gap.

  She would surely have changed over the past nine and a half months. How strange not to have witnessed those changes. How strange, when for decades he had been the cartographer of her face’s and her body’s myriad transformations. He could map out her contours, every freckle, every mole, the tiny starburst of a broken blood vessel behind her right knee. He could remember the shape of her breasts and nipples at every stage of their lives together. Creamy and firm when she was young; stippled with blue veins when she was pregnant and nursing, the nipples red and swollen; then slowly deflating as she grew older, her nipples turning pale pink. And his own body? Had it changed? He’d continued running even after he stopped training, but he was softer than he had been when last he saw her. His hair, even on his chest, was more gray now than black. Had Iris allowed the constellation of moles and freckles across his back to fade from her memory, extinguishing one by one like stars winking out in the night sky? Had she forced herself to forget? Was she as nervous about seeing him as he was about seeing her? Was she as eager?

  Being back in Maine this time made Daniel long for Iris. Here in Red Hook Becca was constantly in his thoughts, in a way she had not been when he was in New York, and he wished he could share his memories with Iris. Only Iris would recall the way Becca used to purse her lips after she nursed, her eyes lolling, as if she were drunk on milk. Only with Iris could he talk about the time when Becca was two and had escaped his arms, running down the length of the dock and flinging herself into the water, then bobbing to the surface and laughing as Daniel, panicked, dived in after her. He wanted to talk to his wife. He missed her. It was as simple as that. He had left her with his fists up, and he was returning with them down and his arms open.

  Daniel was the first of the guests to arrive at the yard. He found Ruthie stacking bottles of cheap champagne and plastic wine cups on top of an oil drum. She’d filled a Mason jar with lupines and daisies, and Daniel recalled how she and Becca used to harvest huge armfuls of lupines every June, filling pitchers and jars all over the house. The memory was less wrenching than he might have expected it to be. Along with the expected pang of loss he felt a kind of warm flush, nearly pleasurable; almost the way he used to feel back before the accident when he’d recall a moment from his daughters’ childhoods. A wave of longing, knit with pride and sweetness. The pleasure of nostalgia, only slightly marred by grief.

  Ruthie’s hair was long and frizzy, braided over her shoulder in a single, thick plait like the one Becca had worn. Daniel remembered how Becca used to complain that there wasn’t a decent place in the environs of Red Hook to get her hair cut. During her first couple of years in Maine, she would even take care to schedule an appointment whenever she came home to New York for a visit. Ruthie, on the other hand, had not bothered to come to New York to visit, let alone get her hair cut. She looked tired, Daniel thought. Mr. Kimmelbrod’s illness was taking its toll on everyone, but Daniel could not help but wonder if there was more to it than that.

  When he hugged her, Daniel gave her an extra squeeze. After a moment, she returned it.

  When they separated she said, “You should go look at the boat. It’s all loaded up on the Travelift and ready to go.”

  The Travelift boat hoist stood about twenty-five feet tall and was painted a cheery, bright marine blue. It was a steel frame with four legs, each on three-foot tractor wheels. Two narrow docks led out over the water, a gap between them. Each wheel would roll along its dock, the boat hanging in the hoist over the water between them. Attached to one leg of the Travelift was a small driver’s cage, no more than a seat and a steering wheel, with levers that worked the winches that raised and lowered the straps. At one end the hoist was open at both the top and the bottom, supported by only th
e two vertical legs, so that the boat could enter. On the sides, the legs were supported by horizontal beams, one directly above the wheels, one across the top. It was from these top horizontal beams that the Alden hung, slung across two yellow canvas straps attached to steel cables on either side of the Travelift.

  The white hull glistened in the sun, reflecting the images of the young men gathered around her, almost mirrorlike in her shine. The metal railings sparkled, too, and the varnished wood on deck glowed a deep, warm orange. Nothing looks so new, so sharp, as a wooden boat hanging in the cradle of a hoist, ready to be launched. In the end she might not even float, but for now she looked as if she could fly, a shining sea bird about to take off into the sky.

  Daniel joined Matt and the group of men milling around the boat. It was a fairly typical crowd for a boat launch. The boatbuilders, men with scruffy beards, frayed shirts, and worn-out work boots; the odd back-to-earther who, when he wasn’t baking loaves of twelve-grain bread to sell at the farmers’ market, earned a few bucks fetching and carrying at the yard; the grizzled marine rats who showed up early every morning to fish off the ends of the yard’s docks and who never missed the free drinks on offer at a boat launch; and a few members of the yacht club set, wealthy men who liked to hang out at the boatyard, where they affected a tone of nearly obsequious respect for the craftsmen, careful never to indicate by word or deed what everyone knew—that they could buy the yard and every builder in it a dozen times over without missing a nickel from their pockets.

  “She looks great,” Daniel said.

  Matt reached out his hand and stroked the glossy white bow. “She does, doesn’t she?” He sounded amazed, as if he couldn’t quite believe what he had accomplished.

  When Daniel saw her in the spring she had been so far from completion that it was almost impossible to believe that this was the same boat. Everything was perfectly fitted out, the built-in tables, benches, and shelves were impeccably crafted. Everything fit, everything worked, the drawers smooth on their runners, the cushions well sewn and tight in the bunks. There was a neat little four-burner stove in the galley, and every brass light fixture gleamed with polish. Matt had even bought pale-blue towels that matched the piping on the upholstery, and had them monogrammed with the boat’s name. They hung on a brass towel warmer in the head. The boy had done, in the end, a magnificent job. A job his brother would have been proud of. And that was fortunate, considering how much sweat and treasure and time had gone into it, how many years and tens of thousands of dollars it cost. Daniel wondered whether, in the end, a beautiful boat might not be worthy of all that. He supposed it had a lot to do with how you felt about boats.

  Daniel slung his arm around Matt’s shoulders. “You should be proud,” he said.

  Matt flushed and ducked his head as if trying to dodge the compliment.

  Ruthie called out, “Are you guys almost ready? Everybody’s here.”

  Daniel turned and saw Iris heading right for him, looking as if she hadn’t spotted him yet. He stood still, watching her smooth gait, the way she swung her arms as she walked, the long, capable stride that so easily matched his own. There it was, the body about which he had been thinking so much lately, same as it ever was. Lovely, elegant, beautiful. And then she saw him and stopped in her tracks.

  She was wearing a white sunhat with a floppy brim that covered much of her face. A pair of oversized tortoiseshell sunglasses hid most of the rest from view. He recognized neither the hat nor the sunglasses. Her blue seersucker skirt he remembered. It had been one of her favorites one summer maybe a decade ago, when she had worn little else. She must have lost weight, because she had not been able to fit into that skirt for a while. He recognized, as well, the white cotton button-down shirt she wore, rolled up at the sleeves and tied in a knot at her waist. It was his. Or had been his, before she’d appropriated it.

  And around her neck, on its homely leather thong, hung the lumpy glass pendant that Becca had so labored over all those years ago.

  After the briefest hesitation, Iris continued down the ramp until she stood only a few feet from him. The lenses of her glasses hid her expression.

  Ruthie glanced from one of her parents to the other. She seemed flummoxed, as if she were struggling to find something to say, some diplomatic bit of dialogue to smooth over the awkwardness. Daniel hoped she was not going to engage in the supremely ridiculous act of introducing him to his own wife. Instead, however, Ruthie turned and took a step closer to Matt, who had his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his khaki shorts as he accepted the congratulations of the dozen or so assembled guests.

  “Hello, Iris,” Daniel said.

  “Hello,” Iris said, her voice cracking slightly. She cleared her throat and tried again. “How are you?”

  “I’m well,” he said. “And you?”

  “Fine.”

  “And your dad? How’s he doing today?”

  “He had a bad night. His chest was a little congested, but when I left him he seemed to be doing better. He was sleeping.”

  “Are they worried about his chest?” Daniel asked.

  Iris nodded. “If it gets bad enough he might need a ventilator.”

  “He’ll hate that,” Daniel said.

  She nodded, chewing on her lower lip. “I don’t think he’ll agree to it.”

  “Has he said he won’t?”

  “No, I haven’t been able to bring myself to ask him. Maybe because I know what his answer will be.”

  Matt cleared his throat and the small crowd quieted down. Jane had brought Bill Paige with her, Daniel saw, so that was still going on. Samantha was there and Matt’s sister, Maureen, and her daughters. All together he counted about a dozen guys from the yard, most of whom had, at one point or another during the long period of restoration, given Matt the benefit of their advice.

  All but a few of the boatbuilders had been John’s friends, and as they watched his kid brother fumble for something appropriate to say, they grew strangely solemn, remembering the many launches John had participated in, a number of them sending boats that he had helped design under way. The last boat they’d seen John launch was one of the first he’d designed all on his own, a twenty-six-foot Jet Drive tender, which the yard had built for a couple from Long Island. John had never been at a loss for words, and surely this occasion, most of all, would have found him with plenty to say.

  “Um,” Matt said. “I guess you all know the story of how my brother found this boat.”

  “Tell it!” said one of John’s friends.

  Matt hesitated.

  “Go on, Matt,” another said.

  Matt shoved his balled-up fists deeper into his pockets and rocked back and forth on his feet. He cleared his throat once, and then again, before continuing. “So, he was up in this boatyard in Machias, and she was just, like, rotting in a corner. He took one look at her, and he knew he had to have her. John said he knew right away that the Rebecca could be as beautiful and sea-kindly as her namesake. If he’d been able to finish the job, she may well have ended up that way; as it is I think he was wrong. She’s beautiful, all right, but she can’t hold a candle to Becca. Or to her sister,” he added quickly.

  “She looks just fine, Matt,” one of the builders said.

  “Let’s get her in the water and see if she floats!” another said. There was laughter at this. Matt hesitated again.

  “Go on, son,” an old man carrying a fishing pole said.

  Matt flushed but continued. “I guess I just want to thank everybody who helped me finish her, especially my mom, who gave over her barn to John to build her in.”

  “Hear, hear!” one of the builders said.

  Jane waved off their cheers, but she could not help but smile. The morning the truck came to take the boat down to the yard, Matt had finally given Jane a tour. She had not quite been able to believe that, in the end, Matt had managed, despite his inexperience and lack of resources, to build something his brother would have been proud of. She had been s
o pleased and impressed that she had refrained from asking him where he found the money to pay for it all.

  Now, however, Matt gave her and everyone else who had gathered for the launch an idea of where the money had come from. “Thanks to Ruthie, for all her support,” he said. “And to her dad, Daniel. If it weren’t for him the Alden would still be in the barn.”

  Iris turned to Daniel, her eyebrows raised. He shrugged sheepishly.

  Ruthie was moving through the crowd, handing out plastic cups of champagne. When everybody had one, she took an unopened bottle out of a brown paper bag and brought it to Matt.

  Matt lifted up the bottle of Veuve Clicquot to show to the crowd. “We don’t really need to christen her, because she’s sailed under her name since 1938, but we thought she deserved a bottle of the good stuff, anyway.”

  He tried to hand the bottle to Ruthie, but she refused it.

  “Your mom should do it,” she said.

  “No,” Jane said. “You go ahead.”

  “Come on, Ruthie,” Matt said, pushing the bottle into her hands.

  Ruthie held the bottle at arm’s length for a moment. Once the boat was in the water there would be no turning back. She had no doubt that Matt would find some way to come up with the money for the insurance, and as soon as he did his master captain’s course they would be on their way to the Caribbean. She wished desperately that Becca were here to christen the boat, and to sail away on it in her place. She took a deep breath and stepped to the bow of the boat, clutching the bottle gingerly. Matt had scored the bottle with a glass cutter so that it would break without damaging the paint on the hull, and she was afraid it would explode in her hands.

  Matt had prepared for her what he wanted her to say, going so far as to write it on a scrap of paper. “May God and King Neptune bless and keep her,” Ruthie read aloud. “And may she bring fair winds and good fortune to all those who sail on her.” She swung the bottle and cracked it against the bow. The bottle exploded, spraying her with champagne.